Chains

by Laurie Halse Anderson

  I kept to the kitchen and cellar and woodpile when she was awake, but made my trips up island each day before dawn, looking over my shoulder at every sound, choosing a different path daily. The constant worry et a hole in my belly. Curzon was stronger and told me not to fret, for he was not coughing up blood and his bowels were in fine working order. But he always asked me to come back on the morrow.

  The day of the master’s departure, I roused myself extra early on account of I feared Madam might do the same. I deposited stale rolls and burnt hunks of pork on the windowsill of Curzon’s cell, then crossed the Commons on my way to the pump. There were a few folk out on their own early-morning errands, all bundled in cloaks and blanket coats and shawls and scarves wrapped high.

  “You there!” a loud voice called out. Everyone stopped to look. “You there, girl!”

  Oh, no.

  A British soldier hurried toward me. I relaxed some when I saw his face. It was the mountain-sized guard who had let me visit Curzon’s cell when he was first imprisoned. The one who liked to eat.

  “Haven’t seen you round,” he said as he neared me.

  I bobbed quickly. “The rules don’t allow civilians in the cells.”

  He lowered his rifle to the ground and eyed my bucket. “True enough. Wot you bring him today?”

  “Bread crusts and burnt meat, sir.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Wot about yesterday?”

  “Yesterday was kidney pie and stale almond cake, sir.”

  He shook his head and licked his lips. “Sorry I missed that, I am. Wouldn’t hurt to drop off a bite now and then to one such as myself, would it?”

  “No, sir,” I answered. “I shall remember that.”

  He tilted his head to the side. “Your master ever hire you out?”

  ’Twas common in those days for folks to hire out their slaves to make money. The slaves did not see the money, of course. But if I had the chance to work away from the prying eyes of Madam, I’d be grateful for it.

  “Yes, sir,” I lied.

  “We need a maid to clean out the cells. Dying men do puke out some terrible things, they do. You’re a steadfast girl. Tell your mistress we’d pay her the going rate for your services.”

  “I shall tell her, sir.”

  He shouldered his rifle. “I’m on the night watch now. The name is Fisher. Bring me round some cake, and I’ll keep an eye on your brother.”

  “Thank you, Mister Fisher, sir. I shall.”

  “No kidney pie, tho’. Kidneys sour my gut somefink terrible.”

  The master left for London with much muttering on the part of his wife. She did not take to her bed as I expected but was driven round to the home of Missus Taylor to play cards and, no doubt, complain about her husband.

  While she was gone, Sarah birthed her baby boy in the cellar. I was sore tempted to sneak down the stairs and watch. I’d seen kittens and calves come into the world but not babies. I had a powerful curiosity about it, but I dared not. I kept water boiling for the midwife and stuck cloth in my ears to keep out the noise.

  When Sarah stopped hollering, I crept down the stairs to see the babe. He was a round-headed fat fellow with big eyes and bigger ears. “George,” Sarah called him.

  “You named him after the King?” Hannah asked.

  “Perhaps,” Sarah said cheerfully. “We never figured the colonists would hold on this long. My man was saying the other night that mebbe the King should stop the war. Mebbe the babe and us might stay here, not sail home. ‘Plenty of room here,’ he said.” She kissed the baby’s nose. “A name like George is a good one on either side of the ocean.”

  “Shhh!” warned Mary.

  The next day, Sarah and her George moved to a house set aside for new mothers attached to the army. I was sad to see them go, for I had wanted to hold the little one and make him laugh.

  Lady Seymour wanted to hear all of the details about the new baby. I thought maybe I could visit Sarah and ask her to bring the little lad by. Something about a baby always brings old folks back to life.

  When I mentioned this notion to the Lady, she just shook her head.

  “Not until this pestilence has left my lungs.” She coughed into a stained handkerchief. “Heaven knows when that will be.”

  Her health was changeable and flighty. One day she’d feel strong and lively and she’d eat three meals and drink a gallon of tea; the next she’d lie abed with fever, looking so poorly it tempted Madam to order the coffin made.

  I went to place another log on the fire. Lady Seymour was lying propped up on pillows in her bed. She shook her head. “No more wood, I am warm enough. Please sit down, Isabel.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I would like to you to sit down, either in the chair or on the edge of the bed. I should like to talk to you.”

  It was improper for a servant to sit with a lady as tho’ they were companions, but she asked me direct, so I sat myself in the chair that was close to the fire. I could not figure what we needed to conversate on. She hadn’t sent me for a newspaper or sweets for days and days. Had I displeased her?

  “Thank you.” She sat back and used her right hand to place her left hand in her lap. “I will soon meet my Maker, Isabel. I am a sinner in need of forgiveness.”

  I relaxed. ’Twas the pull of Death that made old people go funny. Miss Mary Finch went the same way toward the end. Clouds would roll into her eyes, and she would talk nonsense for hours. Me and Ruth just sat polite and listened. The trick with addled old folks was to be agreeable.

  “We all seek forgiveness, Lady Seymour.”

  “I wanted to buy you,” she said.

  I wasn’t sure I heard that right. “Beg pardon, ma’am?”

  “I tried to buy you from Anne after I first met you. She refused and we argued like a pair of fishwives. I rather lost my temper.” She chuckled. “Hadn’t done that for thirty years.”

  I knew not what to say.

  She studied her useless hand. “When Elihu returned from exile, I should have demanded you be placed in my household. I was horrified by your treatment. And, of course, your poor sister. But then the fire …” Her gaze returned to the hearth. “I regret I did not force the matter. You would have suited my household.”

  It would have eased her mind if I thanked her for wanting to buy me away from Madam. I tried to be grateful but could not. A body does not like being bought and sold like a basket of eggs, even if the person who cracks the shells is kind.

  “Isabel?”

  She awaited some word from me. I did not know how to explain myself. It was like talking to her maid, Angelika, who was so much like me and at the same time so much different. We two had no string of words that could tie us together.

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for telling me this.” That was all I could muster.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I am a clumsy old woman.”

  There was a shout from the drawing room upstairs, where Colonel Hawkins and his men had been meeting. I stood. “The soldierwives are all visiting Sarah … I should …”

  “Go on,” she said, closing her eyes.

  Colonel Hawkins was in a right foul mood on account of all the forms he had to fill out and reports that were late. The war seemed fought with as much paper as bullets, what with the letters and the passes and permissions piled on the table, orders received and recorded, recordings of conferences noted down.

  When I entered, he hollered that the room was colder than a barn and called me all manner of rude names.

  I chose the wood for his fire very carefully, the greenest, dampest logs in the entire woodpile, guaranteed to smolder and sputter without giving off any heat and even less light. After a frigid hour, he left for headquarters. It took all my might not to crack a smile.

  The grandfather clock ticked off the minutes.

  Madam would not return home for a goodly while. She was a terrible card player, but she had loads of money to lose, so her companions would keep her at the faro table as long
as possible. I peeked in Lady Seymour’s door. She was wrapped up in her coverlet and sleeping; the blankets barely moved when she took breath.

  I pulled out Common Sense from its hiding place and read by firelight. In truth, there were some pages that I jumped over for I found it hard to figure their meaning. But I gathered many of his thoughts: Americans had good cause to overthrow their British masters, a person born to wealth was not born to rule over others, and ’twas good and proper to fight injustice.

  I kept the mending basket close to hand in case I needed to hide my crime.

  Chapter XLI

  Tuesday, January 7–Wednesday, January 15, 1777

  IT IS NOT IN THE POWER OF THE SMILES OR

  FROWNS OF HER MAJESTY TO AFFECT ME EITHER

  BY CONFERRING PLEASURE OR GIVEING PAIN–I WAS

  WHOLY INCAPABLE OF TAKEING THE PLACE SHE SEEMED

  TO ASSIGN ME WHEN I WAS PRESENTED TO HER. I SUPPOSE

  SHE ASSENTED TO THE ASSERTIONS … THAT THERE

  WERE NO PEOPLE WHO HAD SO MUCH IMPUDENCE AS THE

  AMERICANS–FOR THERE WAS NOT ANY PEOPLE BRED

  EVEN AT COURTS WHO HAD SO MUCH CONFIDENCE AS THE

  AMERICANS–THIS WAS BECAUSE THEY DID NOT TREMBLE,

  CRINGE, AND FEAR, IN THE PRESENCE OF MAJESTY.

  –NABBY ADAMS, DAUGHTER OF ABIGAIL AND JOHN ADAMS,

  ON MEETING QUEEN CHARLOTTE OF ENGLAND

  When Madam woke the next morn, her first command was for hot scones. Her second was that the seamstress must be fetched immediately. The British commandant was throwing a ball in honor of Queen Charlotte’s birthday in ten days’ time. Madam required a new gown for such an occasion. Perhaps two.

  I learnt of all this when I returned from the market with a fresh-killt chicken. Hannah, who had taken over the bosslady job from Sarah after the baby was born, was preparing a cherry pie. Mary sat by the window, mending one of Madam’s skirts.

  The notion of a ball for a queen confuddled me. “That’s a long voyage for a celebration,” I said.

  Hannah laughed. “No, you ninny. The Queen isn’t coming. How could she? She’s got ten children to take care of, plus all them castles.”

  “Eleven,” added Mary. “She popped out a new one last spring.”

  “Even tho’ the Queen can’t come, the officers always hold a ball in her honor,” Hannah said as she rolled out the pie dough. “Gives them a good excuse to eat too much, drink too much, and make proper fools of themselves whilst dancing.”

  I pulled out the feather bag and a basin. “And Madam Lockton is attending?”

  “The colonel will be her escort.” Mary bit her thread in two. “All the rich folk will be there.”

  I ripped a handful of feathers from the chicken and stuffed them in the bag. “Does Madam require anything of us?”

  “Not yet,” Hannah said, carefully laying the dough in the pie plate. “That will change, no doubt.”

  “I seen the Queen Herself, you know,” Mary said, squinting at her stitches.

  “With your own eyes?” asked Hannah. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, I seen her carriage and she was in it. The backside of the carriage, mind … actually the backside of the troops guarding the backside of the carriage. But I saw the wheels. Bent down to do it.” She threaded another needle. “Bet you don’t know her name.”

  “Her Majesty,” said Hannah.

  “Proves you’re not a Londoner,” Mary said. “Her proper name is Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte of Great Britain, Dutchess Sophia Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz.”

  “How do you remember all them names when you can’t remember from one minute to the next how much salt goes into the biscuits?” asked Hannah.

  “Biscuits are not as important as the Queen. I practiced her name from the time I was a girl, case the day ever come when she saw me on the street and I could call out her entire gracious name. If I did that, her carriage would stop and she’d make me a lady-in-waiting on account of my good manners.”

  There was a moment of silence while the two women considered this, then a loud outburst as they near fell over themselves in laughter.

  After dinner, Lady Seymour had a frightful seizure of the apoplexy. Looked just like one of Ruth’s fits, except not with so much shaking. She fell into a sleep so deep I thought she was stone dead, but every so often she’d take a breath and once, she opened her eyes.

  When she woke the next morning, she could not speak nor move her legs. Doctor Dastuge arrived and bled her and stuck pins in her limbs and gave her a bitter tea. In truth, there was nothing could make her better. I was told to tend her again, as I had right after the fire. I fed her and held the teacup to her lips and wiped her chin when she dribbled and helped her with the chamber pot business. This last was most distressing for her, and she cried. Then I wiped the tears from her face.

  I heard Madam ask the doctor plain when the old lady would die. The doctor could not answer her.

  I figured Madam wanted Lady Seymour to die as soon as possible, but not before the Queen’s ball. If the house was in mourning, it wouldn’t be proper for Madam to dance with the admiral and make merry.

  A week before the ball, Madam ordered that Lady Seymour be moved to the parlor bedchamber downstairs so she could reclaim the largest bedchamber for herself. After two privates had carried the Lady down, and she was propped up on her pillows so she could look out the window, Madam called me upstairs.

  “I want this room aired and the linens boiled, girl. It smells of decay in here.”

  The work of the day was simple and heavy: strip the bed, haul down the linens for to wash, clean out the hearth, open the windows and wash them inside and out, take the rugs down and beat them in the yard, sweep and mop the floor, take the rugs back in, close the windows, and give all the wood a polish.

  When the chamber was clean, Madam told me to open the windows again and let them stand open all afternoon to make sure there was no lingering pestilence in the air.

  I did as I was told. The doctor came right before supper and gave Lady Seymour a potion that would make the night pass quickly for her.

  When she was ready for bed, Madam called for me to bring up a warming pan filled with coals and run it between the sheets because they were chilled and still a wee bit damp.

  I did what she asked, then returned to the kitchen, dumped the coals in the hearth, and crept under my own blanket.

  She called for me again. The sheets were still too cold for her liking.

  I refilled the warming pan, carried it up the stairs, and warmed her bed. Then I stoked the fire in her hearth before returning down the stairs.

  The third time she called for me, I was sore tempted to dump the glowing coals onto her bed, let it blaze, and ask if that was warm enough. But I did not. I performed the task she gave me. And when she called a quarter hour later, I did it again.

  The sun rose bright the next day, catching in the icicles that hung from the eaves and jumping off the snow like a mirror. The linens pegged out on the line were froze stiff as wood and covered in a lacework of ice. The clouds scuttled away and the sun blazed, turning the yard into a garden of jewels.

  Ruth would love this. If we were free and at home in Rhode Island and these were our sheets and our laundry lines and our snow, she’d dance like an angel.

  The pictures in my brainpan caught me by surprise. I could not clear them away. She’d clap her hands at the sight of the frozen laundry, she’d twirl in the spinning swirls of snow that lifted in the breeze, she’d plunge her hands into the bushes to pluck off the diamonds. She would do all these things and laugh and …

  The wind tossed a handful of snow in my face and washed it all away.

  Ruth would not see this. Never.

  I dried my face. Why was I thinking of Ruth? I’d worked hard to pack her away from my mind, along with the thoughts of Momma and Poppa and the life Ruth and I were promised. Didn’t help to ponder things that were forever gone. It only made a body restless
and fill up with bees all wanting to sting something.

  I kicked at the new snow. It rose up, a sparkling diamond breeze fit for a queen.

  ’Twas Lady Seymour who did it. Her with her begging forgiveness for not buying me and telling me I’d have been a good slave for her. Her with her wet eyes and skeleton hands. Did she never think about setting me free? That would be a fine question to ask. ’Course, there was no sense to asking it because her mouth didn’t work anymore.

  I carried the big laundry basket out to the sheets. I’d have to hang them in the kitchen else they wouldn’t dry till spring.

  Another picture hung itself in my mind, the poetry book in the stationer’s shop. The one I’d been afraid to read. Miss Phillis Wheatley went free when her master released her. ’Twas on account of her fame, Momma said. Master Wheatley looked the fool for keeping a poetical genius enslaved in his household.

  I’d heard of other slaves who bought their freedom, folks who were given their Sunday afternoons to work for themselves, who saved their pennies and farthings for years and years until they had piled up the hundred and fifty or two hundred pounds to buy their body and soul from their master. If I had Sunday afternoons free, I’d figure a way to earn my pennies. I could sew or hire out to scrub stables. I’d even clean the cells of the Bridewell, like that guard asked.

  I took a long stick from the pile of kindling wood.

  It would never happen. Madam would not allow it.

  She was set on keeping my arms and legs dancing to her tune and my soul bound in her chains.

  I pulled the stick back and cracked it against the side of the frozen bed linen. The ice shattered and fell to the ground, tinkling like pieces of falling stars.

  Chapter XLII

  Thursday, January 16–Saturday, January 18, 1777